


stranded, but i'm not alone

by verlaines



Series: come to my house (and take me home) [1]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Fluff, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Ranboo POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-13 12:34:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29526459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verlaines/pseuds/verlaines
Summary: There is a boy. Pink-cheeked, in a yellow hoodie, with a crooked smile on a square face. Looking at him, Ranboo feels as if the ground has disappeared from underneath him.There is a boy, and Ranboo has never quite felt this way before.
Relationships: Ranboo/Toby Smith | Tubbo
Series: come to my house (and take me home) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2169153
Comments: 23
Kudos: 227





	stranded, but i'm not alone

**Author's Note:**

> what we do here don't leave.
> 
> kudos/comments welcome

_Tubbo looks soft. Tubbo looks very soft._

There’s these things people call intrusive thoughts; by definition, it’s stuff you don’t want in your head but stomps and storms its way in there regardless of what you want. 

Ranboo feels as if _Tubbo looks soft_ is an intrusive thought. It’s the yellow of his hoodie flush against his jaw, the way his eyes aren’t on the camera, his hair tousled from him messing around with it before he settled, his fingers—stemming from a small palm, long fingers—making absent, rhythmic motions on his touchpad. Intrusive. Ranboo bites his lip, clearing his throat as his own hand slows on the mouse, thumb mindlessly tapping on the spacebar. 

It’s only by the grace of the task at hand and a donation that he’s snapped out of his trance, head swiveling back to his main screen so he could resume his mining, letting the sounds of blocks breaking and Minecraft’s soft, tinkling music wash over him like cool water on a hot summer’s day, thankful that no one from the stream can see his face. He knows what he’ll see, once he’s done his job, turned off his computer. 

Him, auburn hair a mess and flattened at places, eyes dark, a stupid little smile on his face that’ll stay there for hours. Days, even. A fond, faraway look in his eyes. 

He’s never really had a _crush_ before. Or, at least, he did, but those are—it isn’t like this. This, whatever this is, is something Ranboo doesn’t fully understand. Not really. He has friends, sure, and he loves spending time with them, but there’s spending time with your friends and _spending all your time with a single person._

If his parents knew the way he’d just lay in bed, eyes on the ceiling with his phone by his head, absently listening to Tubbo go on a fifty-mile, fifty minute rant about something obscure that he half-listens to because his mind is conjuring up daydreams on his crème ceiling. 

That dumb yellow hoodie. Pink cheeks. Someone yelling, then arms around his waist. He imagines bending down so his chin would graze dark brown hair, his own arms patting awkwardly on small shoulders. 

_It would be perfect,_ he thinks after. 

Then he’s snapped back to reality, the one where what he wants isn’t necessarily what he gets, and he has to settle for _this_. 

Tubbo is—aside from all the good things, he’s a little shit. He’s a little shit and he _makes Ranboo laugh_. The way he does it is just… it’s weirdly addicting. It’s not even—his jokes are bad, and he’s messy, but Ranboo loves every increasingly weird minute of it. 

Tubbo, from the screen, shifts as he slowly gets into the groove of editing, his earbuds stuffed into his ears and his fingers flying over the keyboard, save for the moments where he’s got his chin trapped between his fingers, eyebrows furrowing as he slides back and forth on a clip. 

Ranboo hums, his voice cracking in the middle when he notices Tubbo’s eyes flick towards where his phone is propped up, compelled to look at the source of sound that is Ranboo. The smile that slowly overtakes Tubbo’s mouth is–is something else. It’s reserved and sleepy, illuminated by the faint, warm glow of his laptop’s light. He looks at Ranboo’s video feed as if he’s just realised Ranboo was there all this time and is pleased to find him still there. 

Ranboo is so damn glad he doesn’t have his face cam on for the stream. He’s ninety-nine percent sure that he’d be stuttering and stumbling on his own words more when the thought of eighty-thousand people watching him begins to weigh on him. 

The sound of his cheer notification settles him in his own skin, eyes leaving the Minecraft feed to look at the donation message. 

_Hi! we miss u and tubbo :( hope u have a good stream!_

It has been a few days—almost a week—since he and Tubbo stopped showing up on each other’s stream, considering Tubbo chose to focus more on his server and variety stuff and less Dream SMP, which is still going strong for Ranboo. He’d play more variety if Tubbo didn’t constantly make him play games he’s absolutely garbage at, but he takes what he can get. 

“Uh—um, thank you, _hotpockets19_ for the bits.” 

Ranboo wonders if he should let this one go; no one would notice if he ignored a donation message, but—

But. 

_Tubbo looks soft._

Ranboo lets out a small laugh. “I miss me and Tubbo, too, chat.”

He doesn’t even have to look at the chatbox to know that they’re going buck wild over what he said; all of a sudden, bits come flooding in, one or two gifteds with text-to-speech donations that he filters out from his mind. 

That little admission makes Tubbo turn his full attention to Ranboo, scoffing out loud as he shifts to cross his legs at the knee, leaning his arms over the countertop so he can rest his head on his forearms. It’s five A.M. for Tubbo; Ranboo would tell him to sleep, but he knows Tubbo won’t listen. Truth be told, Ranboo likes it—that Tubbo won’t listen. That Tubbo would choose to stay there, where Ranboo can see him, smiling that sleepy smile of his. 

“Oh?” There’s the tell-tale _Teasing Tubbo_ voice, the one that makes Ranboo smile uncontrollably, “Miss me, big guy?” 

“I miss the viewers you rack in.” Ranboo quips back, if only to see the way Tubbo’s cheeks pink in indignation, his lips pursing. 

A smirk. “I bet you do.” He raises an eyebrow, tilting his head so he could rest against his arm easily. He yawns, obviously tired; his eye bags are worse today, dark like bruises against his pale skin. 

Ranboo pauses his rapid, manic placing of redstone ore blocks so he could watch the monitor that contains his Discord’s video feed. “Go to sleep, Tubbo.” 

Unsurprisingly, Tubbo puts up a fight. He shakes his head, tugging the hood of his sweatshirt lower over his eyes as he yawns again, half-asleep on his parent’s kitchen counter. “Don’t want you to feel alone,” He murmurs against the yellow of his hoodie, “Sleep later.” 

“Yeah?” He’d never thought of himself as _lonely_. He’s got thousands of people watching him, keeping him company, cheering him on with whatever he does. Ranboo’s not lonely, especially when he’s got this boy waiting up for him, sleepy and quiet in his yellow hoodie, all his energy spent from a day of working, keeping thousands of people happy. All of that just to end with this, with keeping Ranboo company, not because he needs to, but because he _wants to_. 

He’s chosen Ranboo yet again. 

Tubbo nods, the movement sluggish, like he was fighting sleep with every breath he takes. 

Ranboo decides something then and there. 

“Alright, chat, that’s the stream for today,” He deftly hits his hotkey to cut his game feed, switching to his passive screen. 

Tubbo perks up a little at that, his laughter quiet and still that odd, stilted cackling that Ranboo is both—curious and endlessly fond of. 

“Thank you so much for—oh, god, thanks for the _fifty_ gifteds. It’s literally the end of the stream, but—”

Before he could cap his sentence, the dono pushes through—“ _Is Tubbo holding a gun to your head? Scream if yes._ ” 

“No I’m not.” Tubbo mumbles sleepily, sluggishly peering up so he could stare into Ranboo. “I’d livestream it if I did.” 

“No, he’s not.” Ranboo stares back as he answers with a laugh, quiet as to not disturb Tubbo, who is quickly losing his battle with the call of sleep. “I do, however, have someone waiting for me to end so he can sleep.” 

_Make of that what you will, chat,_ Ranboo thinks, as he watches more subs and more donation messages pour in, all of them collectively set on fire by what he’d said. 

Tubbo is letting out little wheeze-laughs that filter and trickle into Ranboo’s head, filling his thoughts with nothing but rose-tinted replays of it for his leisure. 

Ranboo leans forward, elbow on his desk, chin on his palm. He adjusts his mic, settling in to read some of the last trickle of donations, a smile on his face. 

“Alright, chat, who do we raid? Punz? Captain Puffy? Antfrost, maybe?” His fingers are already typing out the command before his chat can even say anything, typing out _/raid_ and waiting. “Tubbo?” 

More messages and general uproar start up in the chat, all of them demanding to see or hear Tubbo, but Ranboo—see, here’s the thing.

Ranboo’s a selfish guy; there’s Streaming Tubbo, and then there’s _Tubbo._ His Tubbo. The guy who stays up with him, the guy who sings him little songs through the phone, the guy who calls him up while he’s on the toilet to moan about the burning of the Library of Alexandria. 

_This_ Tubbo is just for him. Ranboo doesn’t want _this_ Tubbo screenshotted and clipped to be immortalised on the internet, Ranboo just… wants _this_ Tubbo to live in his memories until Ranboo’s just replaying poor renditions of it in his head. 

“Mm,” Tubbo doesn’t even look up, but his voice is somewhat quieter, more withdrawn. “Raid BBH.” 

_Tubbo looks soft,_ Ranboo thinks, when he spares the other boy a glance. _He looks—_

“You guys can’t hear him, but,” Ranboo fluidly types out _BBH,_ “BBH it is.” He lets out a burst of laughter when he sees the flood of _who’s_ him _??_ drowning out the rest of his chat. “Yeah, yeah, chat, go whine at BBH. It’s not my fault I’m _somewhat_ responsible for this guy that’s waiting up for me.” 

“Your fault.” Tubbo protests quietly, indignant and proud even when he’s half-asleep. “Why’d you have to be American?” 

“Not for long, hopefully.” Ranboo states, just as soft as before. 

“Oh,” Comes the melancholy reply, and Ranboo watches his hand flap around, “ _Hopefully._ What I’d give to have someone stream at normal, Queen-approved hours. Wouldn’t that be nice?” 

“Okay, you know what?” Ranboo hit _enter_ , “I’m sending you guys to BBH now, because I—” 

The stream goes dead. 

Tubbo looks up at him, a cheeky little smile on his face. 

Ranboo’s heart races. “Next month.” 

“What about next month?” 

A loud bark of a laugh escapes him; he expects Tubbo to be overjoyed. Ranboo—he’s been planning this. Setting aside money just so he could see Tubbo, just so he could stand there and breathe him in, to have this boy buzz with energy _right in front of him_. “I’m coming to the UK.” 

The older boy raises an eyebrow, stretching his arms above his head. “Yeah, right. Maybe,” He cuts himself off with a yawn, “Maybe you’re bullshitting, and _maybe_ you’re the one who needs to go to sleep.” 

Ranboo reaches out as if to grip the corner of his monitor but stops before he could, instead curling his hand into a fist on top of his desk. 

“I mean it,” Ranboo murmurs, wondering _why_ Tubbo doesn’t believe him. More adamantly, he looks straight into Tubbo’s eyes, and if he could reach out and shake Tubbo, he could. “I—” A small sound of frustration escapes him. “I’m not _joking_.” 

Tubbo’s eyes are hooded, his lips no longer smiling. 

“Yeah,” He shifts, biting his lower lip. He isn’t looking at Ranboo. All of a sudden it’s as if someone else is on the other side of the screen, someone Ranboo doesn’t know, and this one seems a little scary, a little dangerous. Untrusting. Ranboo doesn’t know how to feel about that. “Good night, Ranboo.” 

“Tubbo, what—?” 

The call ends before Ranboo could finish his question. 

Dread crawls up from his stomach to squeeze at his heart. His fingers twitch, the need to call Tubbo back seizing through his mind, his thoughts a jumble of pathetic whimpering and loud, intrusive thoughts. 

_He doesn’t believe you,_ his mind hisses, _he doesn’t believe you._

_Why?_

When he stands, it’s on shaky legs, absently stripping off his shirt before falling on top of cold, cold sheets. It feels too much against his skin, like ice prickling the tips of his fingers when he sticks his hands out too long to catch all the snowflakes. All he can see when he closes his eyes is Tubbo—that yellow hoodie, those ruddy cheeks, his crooked teeth. 

The smile slipping off of his lips. His eyes hooded, the blue of them turning so dark they might as well have been black. 

Is this what Tubbo looks like, when he hates him? 

Ranboo clutches a pillow closer to the curve of his body, and for the first time in four months, sleeps fitfully. 

******

There’s really not much going on in Ranboo’s life. 

He streams, but only for a handful of hours at the end of the day, sometimes he has meetings—which is something so _absurd_ for him to even fathom—sometimes he kicks his feet up and checks his emails for a couple of hours, then see if Twitter’s up to anything good, but the rest of his day is mostly empty. 

Before Tubbo, that is. 

His life could be summarised in four different terms that happened almost simultaneously. The _Before Tubbo_ —or _Before DSMP_ —and _After Tubbo_ , which is, consequently, _After DSMP._ Ranboo likes reminiscing moments of his life in terms of Tubbo; not that he’d say that to anyone else, really, but when it’s just him, thinking of all the stuff he’d gotten up to in five short months, well. 

And these days, his life is feeling as if it was _Before Tubbo_ again, a little empty, a little boring. Ranboo doesn’t even know how to entertain himself during these long, quiet moments to himself anymore. It’s like he forgot, or maybe he’s just been relying on someone else to fill it for him. 

All of a sudden, his early mornings and his noons are quiet, and he can’t help but think it’s all his fault. 

_Friends don’t need to hang out with each other at every hour of every day_ is what he tells himself, is what he _keeps_ telling himself, even when he sees Tubbo go live, or hop into different streams with everyone _but_ Ranboo, and he can tell that it’s getting to him, because people are noticing. 

Tubbo can have other friends—Ranboo isn’t special enough to monopolise his time, and neither is he greedy enough to demand it. It wouldn’t be fair to anyone if Ranboo kept Tubbo to himself. Though he couldn’t even if he wanted to.

But it’s all a part of the job. Ranboo likes to think that he and Tubbo transcends that, that they really are friends despite the obvious monetary benefits hanging around each other gives both of them; but now, a whole two weeks—and counting—after Tubbo hung up on him, lips thinned into a white line on his face, eyebrows pinched and sorrowful, Ranboo doesn’t know what to think. 

Tubbo is—Ranboo hesitates to call him his _friend_ , because he knows Tubbo is more. 

Absently, he thumbs to his and Tubbo’s iMessage chat, his finger grazing the last message he’d sent to Tubbo. He quit texting after the third day of Tubbo ignoring him, and now it’s a desolate wasteland consisting of his pitiful _hey_ and _goodmorning!_ texts interspersed with memes he’d thought Tubbo would like. 

Even their Discord is eerily quiet. The only time Ranboo ever sees the tell-tale _Tubbo is typing…_ is when Dream mentions everyone to talk about something regarding the SMP. 

There’s something to be said about how he longingly stares at that little signifier whenever he gets on the SMP discord. 

It’s pathetic, how he’s so chickenshit to actually confront Tubbo about it. The thing is, between the two of them, _Tubbo_ is the one who always talks first. 

Ranboo had his time when he was the one initiating conversations, and it didn’t go well. He came off as awkward, off-putting, a little _weirdchamp_ if you will, with all the makings of a weirdo gamer boy who wants to keep his crush talking to him at all costs. 

He _misses_ Tubbo. He misses him so much it—

Hurts. 

Tubbo’s weird, burst-cackle laugh brings him back to the present, and his eyes track back to his monitor, where his desktop is cluttered with random stream setups and browser tabs open, and behind it all, a pathetic little letter typed out in his Google Docs, unfinished and untitled. 

Tubbo is yelling his heart out as he does that little side-grin of his, the one that makes him look particularly boyish and excited, eyebrows lifting as he MLG water buckets with Sapnap and Foolish, Tommy screeching in the background. 

At least someone else is having fun with him. Twitter’s gone crazy, what with Tommy and Tubbo falling into old habits, hanging around each other so much that people are starting to think of them as a singular entity again, _Tubbo and Tommy_ instead of just Tommy or Tubbo. 

Just as Ranboo was getting used to _Ranboo and Tubbo_ , too. 

Ranboo sighs, peering at the time. Almost five P.M. 

He puts down his phone so he could start setting up his stream, scratching at his chin, internally swearing up and down that there’s a bit of peach fuzz growing on his cheeks. Wouldn’t that be something? 

He’s got nothing planned today, really; just a bit of lore that Wilbur’s drawn up with him, an easy two hours of content, then maybe he’d grind for netherite, gussy up his base—maybe catch a bee to keep in his basement. 

Name it something cute. 

Yeah, that sounds good. 

Clearing his throat, he takes stock of everything he needs—water, some snacks—and deems himself prepared. He stuffs his hair in a ratty yellow beanie, ignoring the fact that he hasn’t really been up to much _hygiene_ related shenanigans lately, so his hair is somewhat greasy. 

No one can see him, anyways, except for his parents and his baby brother. He sorely misses the random facetimes Tubbo subjected him to, the ones that makes Ranboo stand up and get into the shower for, the ones that make him giddy all over, his stomach clenching from anticipation. The ones he wears his best Hawaiian shirts for, even if Tubbo doesn’t notice or see them. 

_Pathetic_ , a little voice in his mind tells him, so matter-of-factly that Ranboo can only agree with it. 

“Ranb— _Tommy!”_ Ranboo’s heart jumps to his neck at the stilted shout of his name, his chest already heaving as he turns his gaze back to Tubbo’s stream. “Tommy, you won’t kill me in a way that matters, big man. I _will_ haunt you.” 

He smirks, utterly confident for a boy who has no experience or any sort of valuable loot on his person. 

Ranboo’s hand clenches around his mouse. 

Tommy’s voice is loud and smug when it breaks through the rest of the noise in their voice chat, and Ranboo can almost hear the equally smug grin on his face, the one that Tubbo echoes to the _tee._

“What if ender-boy comes on, eh? Will it matter then?” 

Tubbo scoffs, never missing a beat. “Nope.” 

With that, he shoots Tommy with a bow he’s pilfered from someone else, cackling as he quickly run-jumps away, his hysterical laughter making Tommy giggle as well. 

Ranboo’s fingers are on the keyboard even before he could think. 

_Harsh_ , he reads, in horror, _it matters to me._

It’s quickly eaten up by Tubbo’s chat, and Ranboo can only hope everyone just chalks his message up as a figment of the imagination, a trick of the light. 

A long breath escapes him, as if he were a deflating balloon. 

“Crap,” He says with intense feeling, pressing the heels of his hands into the sockets of his eyes. “ _Fuck_.” 

He puts it on the back burner for now, because the show must go on. He needs to do his damn job. 

Of course it hurts that when he logs onto the DSMP, Tubbo quits out after a few precious seconds, an offhanded _o7_ in the chat along with Puffy, Foolish’s, and Sam’s greetings. It’s the most he’s gotten from the other boy in weeks, and he’s not going to take it lightly. 

Ranboo chuckles, letting some light-hearted inflection tint his words. “ _O7_ to you too, Tubbo.” 

Something light opens up in the dip of his ribcage when his chat floods with emotes and _awws_ , all of them parroting his greeting. It’s unlikely that Tubbo would hop onto _VC5,_ though that little, annoying part of him still wishes Tubbo would just shoot him a message through chat, or be in the mods list when Ranboo deigns to check it. 

He settles into lore, checking the script at intervals, and it’s in the middle of it when he hears the tell-tale sound of someone joining his voice chat, the surprise enough to make him stop in his tracks. He doesn’t stall much, though, immediately launching back into his spiel as his chat collectively loses their shit by every bit he tells them. 

Ranboo switches to lighter music to signify the end of the lore, thankful that he doesn’t really have to reach into some deep part of him for a dramatically sad cap to this episode. Sometimes, he wishes they’d spread these little bits out farther—he _does_ enjoy it, but he also likes just… hanging out with people without repercussions to the painstakingly crafted story the writers make.

The streams where he just hangs out with Tubbo in Snowchester was something that was so _goddamned addicting_ to him that he seriously wants to pace lore. 

His switch to lore and semi-lore is obvious when he walks out of his little quartz-and-coal house, panning his character’s eyes off to the distance. 

“Alright, chat, I’ve been thinking of a new pet—I know I have a lot of them, I know, but you know what I don’t have?” 

Ranboo chuckles when chat spams _a panda_? into his chat feed; that would be interesting to have as a pet. 

On brand, too. Tubbo would like a panda within petting distance. 

“Uh, unfortunately for you guys, I meant that I’m getting a bee. I’m gonna get a bee to live with me in this here house.” A beat. “In my basement. My own little honey bee.” 

That makes them go buck-wild, enough to make Ranboo smile and chuckle. 

He hums, trapping his chin between his forefinger and thumb. “What about it, huh?” 

Predictably, chat urges him to make Tubbo join him in his quest for a bee. Ranboo mindfully ignores those messages. 

“No, this one’s mine. Just mine, chat. No sharing.” 

The sound is quiet but unmistakable. 

Someone’s just left the voice chat. 

Ranboo lets out a breath and puts on a smile no one can see. 

“So how about that bee, huh?” 

******

Twitter has already made fanart of the bee. 

It’s no different from other bees, and there’s two of them. One he’s named Booe, and one he’s named Bee 2. Ranboo was quite impressed at himself with the speed in which he acquired the bees, storing them away from any sort of misfortune that might befall them, safe from everything in his cramped little basement. 

He’s also hit enough subs that he could just—waste away with some of the money, cursing Twitch for taking almost half of his tier one subscriptions. 

It’s on a rainy Sunday afternoon, with Crumb’s stream playing in the background, his attention only ever piqued when a familiar voice speaks up, that Ranboo absent-mindedly buys himself a plane ticket to the UK. He knows his parents won’t care… much, and that the only thing really keeping him from just dropping everything so he could grovel at Tubbo’s feet is his baby brother. 

He surprises himself when, of all people, he messages _Tommyinnit_ —of all people—about it. 

_Ranboo: coming to the UK in a week._

_Tommyinnit: :pogchamp: :kekw:_

Ranboo wonders if it’s a British thing not to take Americans seriously. His lips twist as he types out a swift response. _Ranboo: seriously_

_Tommyinnit: no shit??_

_Ranboo: no shit_

_Tommyinnit: has this got anything to do with u and Tubbo’s row?_

_Tommyinnit: lover's quarrel, whatever_

Ranboo sighs. He debates telling _Tommyinnit_ about it. 

In the end, he doesn’t have to make a choice. 

_Tommyinnit: you need to do something about that bro. its getting to be annoying. :kekw:_

Something reluctantly giddy starts up at the base of his spine, licking its way up to heat his cheeks. 

_Ranboo: what do u know ?_

_Tommyinnit: it’s none of my business but you fucked up mate haha. tubzo’s got issues. hard to fix sometimes._

_Tommyinnit: you’d have to ask him._

_Tommyinnit: i’ll pick u up from heathrow. Prick_

_Ranboo: thanks_

_Tommyinnit: wym ‘thanks’ fucker? just save me a VIP seat near hot women at your wedding_

Ranboo smiles, shaking his head. 

_Ranboo: bet_

Crumb is excitedly guessing at Tubbo’s current drawing of a panda. “Ranboo?” She chirps, and Ranboo smiles at the groan that Tubbo lets out. “It’s Ranboo!” 

******

The rest of the week passes by in a semi-normal blur. 

Semi-normal, because for one, his mother has taken pity on him, and is going to take him to the airport. She took one look at him, asked why he hasn’t been on the phone as much—which is _something_ to behold, given that his lifeline and life’s work is literally tied to both his phone and his computer—and asked about _that British boy you’ve been on the phone a lot_ _with._

Ranboo went quiet. 

His mother had raised an eyebrow and pursed her lips. She’d been preparing to go to work, dressed up in her usual skirt suit, her bright auburn hair piled high and into an intricate knot on top of her head, and said to him, in not so many words, that she’d take him to the airport. 

“Are you gonna be there for long?” She’d asked, too. 

“Uh,” Ranboo shifted from foot to foot. “Long enough?” 

His mother had shrugged. “Do you want me to tell your father?” 

“No.” He said, a quiet plea. “Please.” 

“Fine. You’re the one explaining it to your brother.” Her face had pinched, then had made way to a small but radiant smile. “And you’re introducing him to me, next time. I demand it, young man.” 

Ranboo had let out a laugh. 

Then the week had passed by in a blur of milestones and promises; Tubbo had joined his VC once, while other people were in it. Tommy had crowed, loud enough for Ranboo to turn his volume down enough so he could hear himself, but otherwise, Tubbo didn’t talk much. He’d been withdrawn.

Ranboo resolutely didn’t blame himself for that. 

Though he didn’t have the same courage to do the same, given that he’d just been staring at VC6 and catching himself shamefully doing so, he did try sending Tubbo a text again, and _this time_ , he’d seen Tubbo actually start to reply, but his hopes were dashed when the reply never actually came. 

One more day. 

Well, thirteen more hours, then it’s a nonstop flight from L.A. to Heathrow. He’d already got a book packed so he could read up and not bother himself with his phone during the flight. His little brother’s helped him pack, surprisingly helpful even for a nine year old brat. 

Tommy’s told him to _ring him up_ when he lands, and Ranboo’s also seen to that, looking up sim cards that he could use in the UK. He’ll bother about getting home once he sees Tubbo, because all of _this_ —

The anxiety, the giddiness, the _exhilaration_ , is because of him. The pile of clothing on top of his bed, the impulse-bought gifts he’d got sitting in his carry-on, a hand-written letter he’d waxed sealed, because Tubbo likes wax-sealed stuff, the _forgive me_ spiel written up in his head and in his notes app, all of this is for him. 

If Tubbo doesn’t believe him, then he'll make Tubbo believe him. 

Thirteen hours later finds him dressed up in a pair of ratty jeans and one of Niki’s pullover sweatshirts, this one in heather grey, shifting his weight from foot to foot in anticipation. He shoves on a hat as he waits for his mother to _click-clack-click_ her way down the stairs, and when she does, he smiles at her, his shoulders loosening when she smiles back. 

“Is that what you’re wearing to meet your little boyfriend?” 

“ _Mom_ —”

“No son of mine will be caught _dead_ in—didn’t I buy you those jeans three years ago?” 

“ _Mom—!_ ” 

“Promise me,” His mother takes him by the shoulders, pulling him down for a tight hug. She’s almost as tall as him, but somehow, she still dwarfs him when she wraps her arms around him. “Promise me you’ll wear that Balenciaga sweater I got you. Promise me.” 

Ranboo lets go of his bags to return the hug. “I promise.” When she pulls away, she absently fixes his fringe. “How’d you even know I brought it, anyways?”

Her maroon-brown eyes are beady and knowing when they meet his. “Your brother tattled.” She stage-whispers, her red lips curved into a warmly conniving smile. “And you only ever wear it to impress someone.” When she straightens, she tells him to _get on with it,_ shepherding him into the car. 

The rest of the drive is just as much a blur as everything else, and before long, Ranboo is seated on a window seat, a can of Sprite on his airport tray, _It_ sitting open on his lap. He doesn’t feel as awkward as he’d assume he’d be, nor does he feel nervous. 

He’s done everything he can in preparation for this. 

He’d told his fanbase of the sudden but well deserved _break_ , but not where, or why. Understandably, they’d complained and there was a fight that broke out about it, but Ranboo doesn’t much care for the details of it, not when he’s got this pink-cheeked boy unknowingly waiting for him. 

When he touches down at Heathrow, his stomach is a curl of knots that he can’t tamper down or undo no matter what he does. His breathing starts to go shallow, and though he hides it well, eyes resolutely pinned onto the scuffed tips of his Converse and away from the wide ceilings and the hospital-white colour of it that puts him off. 

He’s saved by his phone pinging, then ringing incessantly. When he picks up, he’s greeted by Tommyinnit’s annoyed voice. 

“Are you the idiot shaking across from me?” He asks, and Ranboo lets out a choked laugh. Tommy scoffs, smug that he’s clocked Ranboo. “You are. Stay put, ender-boy.” 

“Don’t call me that.” 

Tommy hangs up in lieu of answering, and Ranboo sits down, squeezing his eyes shut as he listens for the thud of Tommy’s sneakers, and sighing when someone stops in front of him. 

“Some first impression you make.” Tommy quips, unimpressed, and Ranboo lets out a stilted laugh, opening his eyes to see Tommy, dressed in a t-shirt and a ribbed puffer jacket, “I don’t know what Tubbo sees in you.” 

“Nice to meet you too, Tommyinnit.” 

That makes the younger boy rolls his eyes, twirling a set of keys around his fingers. “C’mon. Tubbo lives way down South, so that’s going to be a pain.” 

“We’re going now?” Ranboo stands up, shoving the hood of his jacket up over his head. He secures the cap over his hair, before looking at Tommy, who looks like he’s eaten a lemon, and it’s then that Ranboo realises just how much taller he is than Tommy; a good four inches, enough to make Tommy tip his head up to look at him. 

Tommy lets out a frustrated huff. “Let’s go, ender-boy. If I miss a call with Tubbo, he’s going to know something’s up.” 

“I have a name, you know.” Ranboo takes long strides to keep up with Tommy, “Are you allowed to drive for long distances?” 

Tommy side-eyes him. “Yes, _Ranboo._ ” He informs him tartly, twisting the car keys around his finger once more. It’s a calming motion. “Unlike Tubbo, I can see over the fuckin’ dashboard.” 

Ranboo lets out a long, full-bodied laugh at that, anxiety seeping out of him like mud washed off by rain. 

******

Tommy is a horrid driver. 

Ranboo finds himself melting into the heated leather seats of Tommy’s dad’s car, though, texting Fundy and 5up about what he’s doing. No one else knows, aside from his mother, brother, and Tommy, but that doesn’t mean Twitter isn’t going to overclock themselves, trying to work out where he’s gone and what he’s doing. 

The thought of people finding out weighs on him like lead, and even more anxiety-inducing is the fact that they can find out that he’s going on break just to visit _Tubbo_. He _has_ thought about the implications of all of this if it comes out that after they’ve had a fight, he’s coming to visit; it’s… weird, isn’t it? 

But if all of this goes well, if Tubbo actually forgives him for whatever he’s done, then Ranboo can—

He doesn’t know what he _can_ do. Only what he’ll do. 

“What’s your plan, here?” Tommy’s fingers tap a mindless beat on the steering wheel, his eyes on the road, the harsh yellow light slashing through Ranboo’s vision with every streetlight they pass. It’s an oddly comforting drive, considering Tommy’s been jiggling and buzzing this entire time. “Are you just gonna show up and hope he doesn’t toss you on your arse, or…?”

“That _is_ the plan,” But now that Tommy’s said it like that, Ranboo realises how out of his own league he is. With a shrug, he turns off his phone and looks back out the window. 

“Don’t shrug at me.” Tommy huffs, “That’s my boy you’re tryin’ to woo, Ranboo. I don’t know what the fuck happened between you two, but Tubbo’s _Tubbo_ and you’re… well, I couldn’t give two shits about you, mate.” A pause, and Tommy catches his gaze, before looking back to the road. “No offense.” 

“No offense taken.” Tommy is Tubbo’s best friend; it’s only common sense that he’d be on Tubbo’s side over Ranboo. To Tommy, Ranboo is just this little shit usurper who’s coming for his title as ‘Tubbo’s Bestest Friend’, the only real competition he’s had in all the years he and Tubbo had been friends. 

He would be more surprised if Tommy _wasn’t_ all up-at-arms and riled up by Ranboo’s sheer presence. 

A moment passes, and then two. Ranboo has a feeling that this whole trip will consist of two things: missed opportunities and stolen moments. 

“Well?” Tommy’s face pinches into a moue of distaste, obviously impatient for Ranboo to answer his question. 

“No plan. I just… wanna see him.” 

“You think he’d want to see _you_?” 

“Well, you’re driving me to him, aren’t you?” 

Tommy considers this. “I am,” He concedes. “The slightest wrong move, though…” 

Ranboo laughs, reaching down to recline his seat. Tommy’s been telling him to just _shut your fucking eyes and sleep, I don’t want to deal with your jetlag_ for the past two hours, and now he’s finally taking Tommy up on it. “You’ll kill me?” 

Tommy arches an eyebrow, pulling into an exit. “Worse than that, mate. I’ll have you banned from the UK, I will.”

“I didn’t expect anything less.” 

******

Tubbo’s house is a tall thing at the end of the street, Brighton beach at the background, the sound of water hitting the shore an ominous murmur, which makes the walk towards it all the more daunting, even with Tommy at his shoulder. 

Everything seems louder, the sound of the wheels on his suitcase against gravel especially grating, and the sound of the ground crunching against the bottom of his shoes particularly irritating. It’s like everything he is is an exposed nerve, a match waiting to be struck against the lighting strip, kerosene lying in wait. 

Tubbo called Tommy at hour three of their drive, his voice sleepy and tired as Tommy surreptitiously put him on speaker, looking at Ranboo as if he’s daring him to say a word. In the end, Ranboo laid back in his seat, listening to Tubbo ramble on about everything and nothing, so unlike the Tubbo that Ranboo’s kept in his mind, and yet the same. 

His heart clenched when Tubbo had let out that choke-laugh, and if Ranboo had closed his eyes, he could have seen him, dark-blue eyes on a square face, the flop of his fringe across his eyebrows, the wide, crooked smile. 

But he didn’t. He’s not sure if he _should_. 

“Terribly quiet.” Tommy says into the night, fidgeting with the keys hanging around his fingers. It wasn’t quiet, actually; in the distance, a dog is barking, and the sea is humming, all of it meeting and crashing against the shores.

It would be nice and relaxing if it wasn’t for the tall house at the end of the street, and maybe, if Ranboo deserved it, he would walk these same roads with someone else, and he would think that the sound of the sea was more innocent and beautiful instead of—of _this_. 

Ranboo hikes his backpack higher up around a shoulder, smiling when something pokes at the meat of his back; in a frenzy, he’d gone and bought any Zelda memorabilia that he can, from stupid shirts to small figurines he had to declare at baggage, all of them meaning nothing to him, but meaning so much to someone else that Ranboo had no choice but to care. 

“Nervous?” Tommy asks as they come closer to the house, which seems to stretch into the night sky—if Ranboo squints his eyes, he could see the window of the room Tubbo’s sister streams from. This is it. 

When he steps closer, when he knocks, everything’s either going to come crashing down around him, or—

“—boo.” Tommy grabs his shoulder. “Bruv.” 

Ranboo snaps his eyes towards Tommy, nervously tugging his hat tighter over his eyes. “I’m good. I’m good.” 

“You’d better be.” Tommy tips his head towards the house, the wide bay windows that overlook the sea. 

Ice slithers its way up his veins, the contents of his stomach quickly turning into lead. 

Blue eyes are black from this distance, but there’s no mistaking the look of surprise on Tubbo’s face. 

Stupidly, Ranboo raises his hand up to wave at the boy in the window. 

Tommy lets out a long, thin whistle as Tubbo drops whatever he’s holding, bolting the opposite direction of the window, and Ranboo—

Starts running. 

He drops his backpack, his suitcase, and starts making a dash for the door to Tubbo’s house, his breath stuck in his lungs, chest already heaving as he quickly covers the distance in ten long strides, just in time for Tubbo to throw open the door, shoulders rising up and down along with his loud, gasping breaths. 

Tubbo’s eyebrows are furrowed. _That’s not good_ , Ranboo thinks. 

“You’re here.” 

Ranboo takes one step closer. “I told you I was serious.” 

Tubbo steps behind the doorway, putting a palpable distance between them. His frown is still on his face, but he looks pensive, even when Tommy finally catches up, wheezing breaths filling the tense silence as Tubbo turns that scathing gaze on him. 

“Is this your doing?” He asks, folding his arms across his chest. Ranboo feels like he’s being scolded by someone _older_ all of a sudden, even when Tubbo stands a whole foot smaller than him, and almost two hands’ width smaller than Tommy. 

Tommy tries catching his breath, increasingly doing weird motions with his body, his hands bracing against his back. “One second.” He breathes, and it’s then that Ranboo notices that Tommy’s dragged all his luggage with him, which is now sitting at the boy’s feet. A flush starts up on Ranboo’s face. “Ender-boy was _fast._ ” 

“Tommy,” Tubbo drags his friend’s name out in a loud, displeased whine, waving at Ranboo as if he’d just remembered Ranboo was there. “ _Where am I going to put him_?” 

Ranboo shifts his weight from foot to foot, his idle hands shoving themselves into his sweatpants’ pockets. His palms are beginning to sweat. 

Tommy coughs and kicks at Ranboo’s bags, making it skid towards Ranboo at breakneck speed, making him yelp as he tries and fails to dodge it. “Your room, obviously. Or do you posh Southern snobs not have _guest bedrooms?_ ” 

Great. Now he has to deal with an aching shin and Tubbo’s righteous anger. 

Tubbo sneers at his friend. “We turned it into Lani’s streaming room—” He cuts himself off, hand slicing against the air as if to wave off his train of thought, his face utterly pissed, lips thinned into a slash across his face. Ranboo’s never seen Tubbo angry and it’s… well, it’s a sight to behold. “ _Tommy_ , you brought Ranboo here without telling _me_.” 

“I was coming here eitherway,” Ranboo interjects, loud enough to startle Tubbo, “I was—I told Tommy I was coming soon as I bought the ticket.” 

“You’re stupid!” Tubbo shouts, eyes livid and cheeks a bright red, turning tightly on his heels and storming off into the house, the doorway laid open in his wake. Ranboo watches him go, his heart shattered into pieces and rattling like glass in his stomach, already condemning himself to sitting at a random Starbucks and getting a red-eye home. 

Tommy clears his throat. “Well, no one’s ever said these Brighton people aren’t fuckin’... drama queens.” 

Ranboo lets out a choked laugh. “You think?” 

Blue eyes glare at him as Tommy picks up his backpack and shoves it against his chest, already walking into the house after Tubbo. Ranboo stares at him. 

Tommy makes a face when he turns to look at Ranboo. 

“Come on, then. And close the goddamned door.” 

******

Tubbo’s mother is unimpressed. She looks just like Tubbo, from the soft square of her face to the part in her hair, and Ranboo can see in the dip of her eyebrows what Tubbo’s angry face will look like once he’s matured. 

It doesn’t really comfort him. 

Tubbo’s mom is _scary_. 

“Um,” Ranboo sticks out a hand. “I’m Ranboo, Mrs. Tubbo.” 

Lani and Tommy let out little giggles from behind him.

So much for having friends. 

“So you are.” She’s a different kind of elegant from his own mother, understated and intimidating, but maybe it’s just because Ranboo is meeting _Tubbo’s_ mom, and not anyone else’s. He’s already lost a battle even before he’s won the war. She turns to look at Tubbo, her eyes wide and curious. “Is this your boy?” 

“ _Mum._ ” Tubbo crosses his arms again, resolutely ignoring his mother’s question. “Can I put him up in my room?” 

“Of course not,” She concludes, raising an imperious eyebrow. “I told you, no boys—”

“—until I’m old and wrinkly, I know, but where am I meant to put him?” 

Ranboo doesn’t know how much more he can take of them talking about him like he isn’t there, but he does understand just how much of a whiplash this is for Tubbo and his family. Just some random kid shows up at your doorstep in the middle of the night, hoping to god you’d give him a place to sleep for the night. 

“I can,” When twin cobalt eyes pin against him, Ranboo nearly freezes up, and it’s only by the grace of Lani throwing him two thumbs’ up that Ranboo continues his statement. “I can get a hotel.” 

He’s put aside enough money to live out of hotels and McDonald’s for a _month_. If Tubbo’s going to throw him out, he’ll be fine. It’s just going to be another thing to worry about it put on his ever-growing list of things

Simultaneously, Tubbo and his mother make a face, and goes: “Surely not.” 

Ranboo bites his lip to keep himself from laughing. 

“Teagan can give up her art room for now.” Tubbo’s mother pins him with a _look_ , and Ranboo’s never felt more terrified in his short life. “He won’t stay for too long, won’t he?”

Tubbo smiles, lifting up on his toes to press a kiss against his mother’s cheek. “That remains to be seen, mother dearest. Now go away, please.” 

The woman shifts her look from Ranboo to Tommy. Her face turns softer, looking more like the Tubbo Ranboo knows. “Will you be staying for dinner?” 

Tommy smiles. “Yes’m.” 

Tubbo’s mother lets out a light peal of laughter, like Tommy’s her favourite person in the world, pressing a kiss against Tubbo and Lani’s foreheads before she’s swanning off with all the grace of a woman whose son probably inherited his gymnastic abilities from her. 

Ranboo doesn’t even fight to suck in a loud breath of air after he’d been holding it for the majority of that conversation. 

“That’s a woman right there.” Tommy comments, ever the sleaze, making Tubbo smack him on the shoulder for it. 

When Tubbo finally looks at him, it’s guarded, but warm, which is probably leftover from his and his mother’s interactions. 

So imagine Ranboo’s surprise when Tubbo takes him by his wrist, his hand almost—but not really—spanning the circumference of his wrist, and tugs him along behind him. Ranboo’s heart rattles inside him, tape along the edges as it tries to mend itself. 

“Come on,” He beckons, the first bit of quiet that Ranboo’s felt comfortable with, “Room’s upstairs.” 

Tommy and Lani regrettably don’t follow, instead left with their heads bent together as Tommy teases her about Drista, but Ranboo can’t find it in himself to mind. 

No, not when Tubbo has him at arm’s length, close enough for Ranboo to smell the faint lavender of his shampoo, the scent of his laundry detergent. 

Ranboo wants to wrap himself around Tubbo, to just keep him in the curve of his body until they’re one entity, sharing one mind, so he wouldn’t have to stumble on his own words just to tell Tubbo what he feels. 

When Tubbo lets him go, Ranboo watches his friend tuck his hair behind an ear, flipping open the switch inside the room that’s to be Ranboo’s, humming to himself as he quickly tidies up the room, before giving up and kicking some of it in a lower cabinet. Ranboo takes a small, surreptitious inhale. It smells like acrylic and coffee, this room.

Ranboo pushes down the thought of _home_ that’s peeking its ugly, little head in the horizon of his brain. 

“This is you.” Tubbo motions around the room, the bed, the empty cabinets, his eyes everywhere but on Ranboo, the anger and confidence that he had bleeding out of him like water from a punctured balloon. “Bathroom’s at the end of the hall. My room’s the yellow door. Teagan’s away at uni so you can use her cabinets to store your shit.” 

“Tubbo.” 

Tubbo nervously tucks a piece of hair behind his ear again, before moving closer to the threshold of the door. “Dinner’s—dinner’s at nine. I’ll leave you alone.” 

Ranboo reaches out to take Tubbo’s hand in his, trying hard not to grit his teeth when Tubbo steals his hand back, shoving them deep inside his hoodie’s pockets. Wary. Guarded. “ _Tubbo_.” 

Tubbo finally looks at him then, as if he didn’t have a choice but to do so. “ _What?”_

“What did I do?” Ranboo asks quietly, the silence between them too heavy. 

“It’s not your fault, big guy.” Tubbo sighs, leaning against the doorway and rapping his knuckles against the wood. “I just have issues.” 

Ranboo takes a desperate step forward, stopped when Tubbo meets him halfway. “Then—Tubbo, I—”

A small hand covers his mouth, dark eyes looking up at him. “Don’t tell me,” Tubbo tells him, voice cold, cold as in the kind that makes you shiver, and not like cold as in _hurtful._ Ranboo stills underneath Tubbo's hand. “Don’t tell me if you’re not sure what you’re even going to say.”

In the depths of his mind, he hears Tubbo’s voice.

_’I've been thinking about life. Love, life, and-and Minecraft; I don’t think I’ll be telling you.'_

He remembers feeling bewildered at the jokingly steely tone in Tubbo’s voice, and wonders if this was Tubbo telling him what he’d _meant_ all along. 

Ranboo leans down to knock his forehead against Tubbo’s, saying nothing but a whisper of a breath against Tubbo’s warm palm, not even daring to wrap his hands on the dips on Tubbo’s narrow hips. 

Tubbo lets out a little laugh, like he’s distraught and confused and _over it._ “Please.” 

Ranboo nods. 

When Tubbo steps away, Ranboo doesn’t chase him. He lets Tubbo come and go, because that’s what he’s asking from him. Ranboo doesn’t understand what he feels, not just yet, but all he does know _now_ is that he wants to be as sure as Tubbo wants him to be. 

He wants to be _good_ and _sure_ , not just for Tubbo, but for himself, too.

“Tubbo.” He calls out, before Tubbo disappears down the stairs. When Tubbo turns around, the dim, warm light of the lamps above him shadow his face, hiding him from Ranboo. “Tomorrow, can you take me to the beach?” 

Even in the dark, Ranboo can see Tubbo’s crooked little smile, lovely even in shadows, and _this_ is different from his daydreams. There’s no shouting, no pink-cheeked boy in a yellow hoodie, no arms around his waist. Rather than a free-fall, Ranboo is gently being led down, a guiding voice helping him traverse the side of the cliff. 

Instead, there’s a mile of distance between them, but they’re both smiling. Ranboo can still feel the warmth from pressing his forehead against Tubbo’s. 

A mile of distance and the rest of tomorrow. 

Ranboo can live with that. 

It’s the first step to being sure. 

Tubbo takes a step closer, the shadows slipping off of him like a silken veil, his smile wide and filled with boyish hope. Ranboo can’t take his eyes off of him.

 _Tubbo looks soft,_ he thinks, the smile on his face melting into something helpless and warm. 

“Sure, big guy. You and me, tomorrow.” 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> hm . might make a tumblr to see what's what


End file.
